


Trust No One Drabbles

by thesubparpirate



Category: Half Life Trilogy - Sally Green
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:46:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesubparpirate/pseuds/thesubparpirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing series of drabbles separated into chapters with no particular order other than when I happened to write a bunch of them</p><p>Some of them kind of link to the other thing I wrote, which was before Half Lost came out, and so I'm ignoring pretty much that entire book and continuing on with what I've written instead.</p><p>Most of them are pretty Nabriel-y, but a bunch are also about Ellen because I love her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Trust No One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4952197) by [thesubparpirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesubparpirate/pseuds/thesubparpirate). 



G

“Gabriel, I want you to talk to Celia.” Before Van finishes her sentence I’m shaking my head. She’s going to need to think of something else if that’s what she wants for the deal I made.  
She continues talking, explaining that the beginning stages of managing this crisis will be the most difficult, that Celia knows more about covert operations than I do, that she could be a valuable asset to uncovering potential trafficking areas and traffickers themselves, that she has contacts, the like. As though she’ll change my mind.  
I keep Nathan away from her, his “teacher and guardian”.  
I can barely stand to be in the same room as her.  
Talk to her?  
Have a conversation?  
I’d rather choke on the words.

Nathan says he’s forgiven her. And maybe he thinks he has.  
I will never forgive someone for making the love of my life try to die.

The nightmares he has. The attacks he gets.  
Screaming about the sound in his ears.  
Clawing at a cage that isn’t there.  
Choking on a collar he no longer wears.

She treated him worse than dirt, and everyone seems to expect us to be fine with that.  
The worst is Nathan. He always feels something, even if it’s anger. But not with her.  
He thinks its forgiveness.  
I think its fear.  
He acts like he doesn’t mind, but I know he does. I can see the way his muscles tense when someone mentions her name. His fight-or-flight reaction, but with her, all the fight is gone.  
He’s tried to tell me about the times it wasn’t so bad, like when she’d let him draw her or when she tried to protect him from Soul, but the excuses are so feeble. They don’t excuse anything.  
Jessica hated him. The O’Briens hated him.  
She never did. And she still did it.  
She did it and thought nothing of it. And he can’t understand that. He, who’s all fire and brimstone, who’s never followed an order in his life, can’t understand the kind of cold detachment someone needs to do something like that. Dispassionately abusing someone because someone else told you to. He thinks it means she was planning to help him. That if she wasn’t all the way evil, she must have been good. But Caitlin taught me it’s the people in between who are the worst.  
My Nathan slept in a cage threatened by death and I’m supposed to be alright with that.  
We needed Celia to win the war. Now we need her to find the refugees and house them.  
I’m not going to let my anger hinder the rest of us helping people. Maybe she’s even trying to be altruistic, I don’t know. I doubt it. I think she’s picking the stronger side like she’s always done, playing in their favor, acting like she was always part of it. Always trying to get something out of anyone she can. After all, she started off on the losing side of the war. She has to make sure she seems trustworthy now that everyone she once trusted is dead.  
But that doesn’t mean I have to talk to her.

“Gabriel? What’s your answer?”  
“Never.”

I protect my family. I have to. God knows I’ve learned that.  
Just because he wants her to be forgiven doesn’t mean she is.  
He’s afraid of nothing except her. But rage burns fear away. And I’m angry enough for the both of us.  
She hurt him. For as long as his nightmares continue, she’s still doing so.

I hate her and I hate that she’s made herself necessary. She knows I’m not the only one. Which is exactly why she did it.  
She’s made a lot of enemies in this war. Now she’s made herself invaluable in the aftermath so none of them can come back to bite her.  
I don’t have any delusions. I know she’s a better fighter than me. Probably just as good with a gun as I am, too. So I’m not going to confront her, though a big part of me wishes I could. I’m going to make us disappear, and Celia is never going to see Nathan again.  
If she can’t die, we’ll get away. Far away, in the woods somewhere. We’ll live together and have a family and Nathan will be happy, even if the scars she gave him will never go away.  
By then, the war will be long over. The refugees will be resettled. Everyone will be safe.

I protect my family, and I don’t forgive easily.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

N

I’m having another panic attack.  
Not again.  
Not again.  
Oh, why is it like this. Why am I like this.  
Oh, no, not again.

My pulse heavy in my ears. My breathing ragged, my muscles strained, my eyes stinging, my head spinning.  
Oh, not again.  
I would be annoyed right now if I wasn’t so afraid.

I’m not going to say it.  
I don’t want it that badly.  
I want—I need help.  
I need help.  
I’m not going to say it.  
I need help.

I need—  
Gabriel

He isn’t there right then. But he’s there when he can be.  
I wear his favorite sweater and clutch his pillow close to me and breathe in his scent until my breathing gets slower. Until the tears leave stiff tracks down my face and I stop shaking enough to tear at my nails and cuticles the way I do before and after an attack.  
It makes me feel so pathetic like this, when he’s not here. I hate it so much.  
I hate that this feeling can make me question what I know.  
He loves me.  
He loves me.  
He does.  
This isn’t pathetic.  
This is valid.  
This is ok.  
It makes me angry that I’m like this. That I struggle with this. Still.  
But I know myself better than I used to. At least I have that.  
When I felt this way I used to lash out. I used to hurt people back in any way I could. To get the pain out. To spread it. Gabriel’s scar is a testament to that.  
I’m not like that anymore. I don’t want to be.  
I’m better now. I can be better now.  
The fact that I have these feelings doesn’t mean I’m not better. It’s how I deal with them.  
I could keep pushing everyone away.  
Because I’m ashamed.  
Because I’m afraid.  
Because a bit of me still hates myself.  
But I don’t want to be that.  
He loves me. He’s convinced me that a bit of me is worth loving.  
I want to be someone who deserves that.

He comes home from the library at his usual time. I’ve gotten up by now, washed my face and walked around. Stared at my pencils and picked at the threads in Gabriel’s sweater and bunch up the sleeves in my hands. I can’t focus enough to draw. I’ve been pacing around the kitchen because that’s where the front door opens to. I know I should do something else. Just waiting for him to come back isn’t healthy. I need to find something else to do. Something helpful. Something productive. But then I hear him come through the door and it’s so much like relief.  
I don’t want to look at him. I still feel frayed. And when he looks at me the way he does I just break down all over again.  
“Hey,” he says softly, warmly. I know he notices I’m wearing his clothes again.  
“Hi.”  
He hugs me from behind and presses his face into my hair. “Rough day?”  
I sigh.  
He moves from behind me so he can kiss the side of my face, so he can pull me into a hug and bury my head in his chest. “It’s ok, love. Whatever you feel, even if it’s an attack, it’s ok. It’s valid. And I love you.”  
“I love you,” I mumble, but it’s muffled in his shirt.  
“I know,” he replies, and holds me a bit tighter.  
He knows. He knows everything.  
And he loves me anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

N

I like days like this.  
There’s that lake near us, the one that lights on fire every sunrise. I like to go there and listen to the water. It’s calming.  
Sometimes he comes with me.  
We don’t have to talk.  
I’ll lie down and put my head in his lap and watch the clouds pass as his fingers work through my hair.  
I’ll race him that rocky outcropping to see who can jump in the water first. It’s always me. He’s made for climbing, but on the slippery stones, it’s better to have four legs than two.  
He’s a much faster swimmer than me, but I’ve been practicing. I’ll never beat him as I am, but then, I am rarely as I am.  
Fishing is too still for me. There’s nothing to hunt. He can, but he never focuses on it. He always had a book in one hand and the fishing rod in the other. And I always distract him.  
The days where we wander around the forest or laze about the beach, doing nothing in particular except for being together.  
Those are the best.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

N

I have my little boy with grass-stain eyes and sticky hands. And he’s wonderful. And I’m so afraid for him.  
What will the world do to him?  
My life was hard. So was Gabriel’s.  
I wish…  
I don’t know what I’d wish for. Not for him to stay here with me. I already know he’d never like that. He’s too curious, too adventurous. I want to protect him. I can’t bear thinking of him hurt.  
Raising him is the best thing I’ve ever done. Some might argue it’s the only good thing, but I know better. I’ve done bad things. I’ve done good things. And my moral ambiguity is my own problem to sort through.  
It still gets to me though, sometimes.  
Henri notices.

“Daddy?” I hear him ask through the door.  
I’ve shut myself away in the bedroom for a few minutes. We had to move when we got Henri—the cottage was just too small. And we couldn’t spend all our time outside, not with a baby. So we got a little house with a large skylight in our bedroom and made a hefty investment in nightsmoke. It worked out for Gabriel because it was closer to his school and work. It worked out for me because it meant that sometimes I could get some peace and quiet. I love this little boy, I do. But he’s a little boy, full of energy and sometimes very little else. And when I fall into moods like this one, I don’t like him to watch.  
Gabriel has just left for class. He’s finishing up his Masters. I always thought he would go into literature—he loves it so much. But he was concerned about the job market and supporting me and Henri if the prospects weren’t good, so in undergrad he double majored with Literature and Government once the refugee crisis calmed down. He explained it to me by saying it would give him more opportunities and it would also help him keep an eye on Van, Celia, and the new Council, in case they tried anything.  
They do that a lot in America, study two subjects, so I made him a cut and he managed to get in with a bit of financial aid, enough that we could manage to pay for it from what we’d made with Van. The time difference was such a pain. He would try to only take what would be classified there as morning classes, so the latest he’d be back here was around eight at night. Some semesters it didn’t quite work out like that, so those months I would stay up late for him by the fire and sketch. Sometimes I’d have a friend with me from the woods, a little squirrel or a fox or a badger, whoever had decided to wander in with me. I’m not sure when that started, and I’m not sure how I feel about it, but it was nice on those cold rainy nights to have company when Gabriel was gone.  
A few times he actually convinced me to go on campus with him. I’d bring Van’s potion in a bottle with me, and every few hours I’d take a drink so the electricity wouldn’t get to me. He showed me where he worked (in the library, of course) and introduced me to the friends he made there. I’ve never been good with people, but since so much of our work with Van requires social interaction, I’ve gotten better. I still don’t know what to do when Gabriel decides to make public displays of affection, which is often and embarrassing and irritating as hell, but then, that’s why he does it.  
He got me drunk there, once. He didn’t try champagne that time. He’d made me try some wine, and when I told him I didn’t like it (because I just don’t like the taste of alcohol—though he laughs when I tell him that) he gave me something else, some sort of mixed drink, and that wasn’t great but it was tolerable enough. Everything slanted and bowed for a while and my head felt like it was floating and spinning.  
We were only at a little get-together, which was good. If there had been more people, in the state I was in, I would have gotten overwhelmed right away. But it’s Gabriel, so. He’s careful.  
I’m not a particularly fun drunk, I don’t think. Not compared to how I’ve heard other people talk. I just got exhausted and made Gabriel take me home so that I could cuddle him and fall asleep.  
After he graduated undergrad was when I asked him. I almost didn’t want to. For so long I’d felt unworthy. Like I’d be restricting him, asking for more. Because he deserved better. He deserves the best. But, I’m the one he chose. So I have to be the best, for him.  
And I did what I could and I gave him a ring. We hardly had any family left, the two of us combined. Neither of us wanted any kind of service or celebration—we both agreed it would just bring up too many bad memories. So, it was quiet, our marriage. But good.  
After that he started getting jobs as an assistant while working his way through a graduate school in England. That was much nicer for both of us.  
While he was doing that, I was still working with Van. My job, though, wasn’t the same as before. I liked my new job better.  
Some of the little ones—well, all of the little ones, and a good number of their parents, too—were traumatized after everything that happened to them. And for good reason. And many of them, having been kicked out of their homes, didn’t have much spare money to afford counseling or care. And before anyone asks, no. I’m not at all qualified. That has to be some kind of joke. Me? Therapist? The only way I know how to deal with my problems is literally running away from them. But often, even if a person doesn’t go to therapy, just being around animals helps.  
Van noticed I had a small legion of woodland creatures at my beck and call. So every few days I’d gather a group of cuddlier animals together—dogs, cats, the more domestic ones, although sometimes I’d manage to coax rabbits or squirrels or sometimes even a few deer out of the woods (after being thoroughly checked for fleas and other bugs by Nesbitt and myself). And the kids would come and sit down to pet them and play with them. It didn’t make a fortune, but it was nice. It gave me an excuse to see Rory sometimes. I liked watching her grow—she has a special place with me, maybe because she was the first child I helped. She became such a happy kid, despite what had happened to her. It made me feel hopeful.  
She’s going to college now, you know. Social work.  
God, that’s strange.  
Anyway.  
Seeing Rory and spending time with the kids every few days made me think…maybe I wouldn’t be horrendous at it.  
I like kids more than most people. I’m still selective, but I can understand where they’re coming from. They don’t understand anything yet. I still don’t understand anything at all. So we have that in common.  
I mentioned it offhandedly to Gabriel once when we were lying in bed. Once, and then he never stopped talking. It never seemed real for me until I had Henri in my arms for the first time and felt like my stomach had turned into a pit that I would actually be responsible for someone else.  
Fast-forward five years later and Gabriel’s getting his Master’s working at a University nearby and I have devoted myself to the upbringing of the perpetually moving mud-stain that is Henri. And usually I think I’m good at it. Henri doesn’t complain. He keeps me from thinking too much. I can’t get stuck in my head around someone who makes that much noise. And in return I’d do anything for him. Always. Unconditionally. Whatever he needs.  
Usually that’s enough. But.  
Sometimes my memories get the best of me.

“Daddy?” he asks at the door, pushing it open.  
I roll over to face him. I’ve only been lying down for a few minutes—I’m not so dumb to leave a five year old alone for long. But I needed to go somewhere without him, just for a little while. Just in case something bubbled up to the surface that he didn’t need to see.  
“Hey,” I say, sitting up. “Hey, baby. What’s wrong?”  
He walks over and pushes himself up so he’s sitting next to me. “You’re sad.”  
“A little.”  
“Why?”  
“I don’t know, baby. Sometimes it just happens.”  
He nods. “Were you taking a nap?”  
“No, just lying down.”  
“It’s almost time for my nap.”  
“Yeah, bud. It is.”  
“Can I take a nap with you?”  
“Of course.” He’s supposed to start sleeping in his own bed now, but I can never say no. I push back the blanket and he crawls in. He shoves his messy head under my chin and balls my shirt in his little hands, pressing his cold toes into my leg. I put the blanket back down and wrap my arms around him. He smells like grass and his baby soap and the apple juice he had with lunch.  
“I love you, Daddy.”  
“I love you too, baby.”

We both wake up when the front door shuts, announcing that Gabriel has returned.  
“Papa!” Henri exclaims, and wiggles out of my arms. I get up slowly after him, but he’s already run out the door before I’m fully turned around.  
“Coucou ! Ça va, mon petit ?”  
“Papa, Daddy’s sad again today.”  
“Is he?” I hear him ask as I walk to the doorway. He looks up at me from where he’s kneeling at Henri’s height. He tilts his head and stares at me for a moment, his eyes soft. “Are you?” he says.  
I don’t want to tell him I was, so I don’t say anything, and he knows. He kisses the side of Henri’s head. “Why don’t you go play with the train for a bit on the rug? The one Arran just got you?”  
“Okay.” I watch him run away, over to his bag, bouncing each step. Gabriel walks over to me and kisses me on the cheek gives me a hug.  
“I…” I start.  
“You don’t need to explain. Do you want me to stay home tomorrow? Would that help?”  
I hug him back. “No,” I sigh. I used to get annoyed when he acted so very cautious around me. But I don’t mind it so much, now that I’m taking care of more than just myself. “They need you at work.”  
“Yes, but I like you more. If you need me that’s more important.”  
“I’m fine.”I peck him on the lips. “Really.”  
He kisses me back. “I love you,” he says with that inflection, the one I know he’s saying it for me and not for him. “Always—Forever—” He kisses me between the words.  
“Henri’s going to notice,” I stop him quietly, but I’m smiling.  
He smiles and kisses me one last time before walking over and joining Henri on the rug.  
I stay standing a while longer, watching them together.  
I’m so lucky.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how many of these there are gonna turn out, I just sort of write them when I have nothing better to do
> 
> So the first bit is Nathan being a sap because that doesn't happen often, then there's a bit about Gab stealing, then a random conversation, then Gab being a sap (naturally), a bit about a college party because I'm away from college right now and I miss the atmosphere, some nightmares, and then Gab being sick because I, unfortunately, am ill at the moment and felt the need to spread the pain
> 
> and yeah. Thanks for checking out my procrastination and boredom, i actually like what came out of it

N.

It’s raining out, like usual. It’s always raining it Wales. Sometimes, towards the end of the worst season, I get a bit restless, a bit stir-crazy. But it also makes me lazy. The sound of the rain mixed with the crackling fire in the hearth. The smell of nightsmoke and burning wood.  
I press closer into the blankets and the person I’m holding in them. He smells of cinnamon and old books. And that little bit that’s just him.  
I listen to his heartbeat and trace my fingers across his chest as it rises and falls slowly. Kiss the bit of his neck next to me. He’s so perfect.  
I want him to be awake so I can tell him. I move and hold myself above him, ghosting my lips across his cheek, on his forehead, against his own.  
His breathing speeds up and his eyes flutter open. I’ll never get tired of watching the gold spin in them.  
“Good morning.” His voice is gravelly with sleep.  
“It’s still evening.”  
“Hm.” He runs a hand through my hair and pulls my head down for a lazy kiss.  
Our faces are so close the only things in focus are his eyes.  
“You’re perfect,” I tell him.  
He smiles and cups my cheek. “Yeah?”  
“Yeah.”  
He kisses me again. “Why do you think so?”  
“You…are.”  
He pulls me back down so I’m no longer hovering over him, so we’re lying side by side. He pushes a bit of hair off of my forehead. “I am. But, I’d like to hear why.”  
I roll my eyes and bite my lip to stop from grinning. He can be so self-important sometimes. I never call him out on it, though.  
I look back to him and think about all the things I want to say to him, but the words are stuck somewhere in my throat. When I look into his eyes I swear it’s like I’m floating.  
“…Nathan,” he whispers, amused. “You’re blushing.”  
I curse at him. “Shut up.”  
He laughs. “I am still waiting.”  
I bite my lip, thinking it was a mistake to bring this up. But what’s done is done, and he won’t let it go. I’m so rarely sentimental and vocal about it.  
I sigh and tug at my hair. I nudge my face into the crook of his neck so I don’t have to look at him. I settle myself there, one arm around his waist, his arms around my shoulders, and wait until most of the tension has left my muscles.  
“You’re always so happy,” I start. “To be here, to be with me, to just…be. And you’re so kind, always. Even when I’m a piece of shit. Especially when I'm a piece of shit. And you’re so damn stubborn, but it’s a good thing. Because I knew you were a good thing. And if you hadn’t been stubborn I would have chased you away like I try to do everyone else, because I didn’t think good things happened to me. And you never make me feel ashamed to show how…how…how damaged I am, sometimes. You helped me see myself. As more than just a weapon or something wrong. As a person. As someone who can do better. I don’t know how you did that, but you did.” I swallow, my throat a little dry. I can feel his hands in my hair, still, attentive.  
“You—…” I pause. “You’ve seen everything. And you stayed. You stayed and you keep staying. And I love the way you look at me. And your voice. And your laugh. And you’re so smart but you never make me feel stupid. Even Deb made me feel stupid, sometimes...God, you’re so beautiful. I love how when you’re really focused you tie your hair back and get a little line between your eyebrows. And that little tune you always whistle walking around. I love everything you do. I love you.”  
I feel fairly spent after all that. My face is hot. I know he can probably feel it. He’s still very still.  
“…”  
“…”  
“…Gabriel?”  
His hands move through my hair slowly. I’m still waiting for him to respond.  
“You’ve gone a bit—”  
He kisses me before I can finish, hard. The sound of our teeth clinking sends a chime in my head. I can taste his tongue in my mouth and feel his hands on the back of my neck and my face.  
We’re both breathing heavy when we part.  
He stares at me. With that expression, I know the one. I’ve seen it before.  
He kisses me again, pressing me down. His hand in mine.

 

“I love you so much.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

N.

I know he does it when he’s stressed out, when he needs escape. It gives him a different type of thrill than rock climbing. When he climbs, his success relies only on him against nature. Nothing is variable but him. The rocks always stay the same: everything is under his control. He’ll never fall because he’ll never let himself do so.  
With stealing, though, he’s dealing with people. And people are erratic. Sometimes irrational. And that, he can’t control. Because one wrong step, one second off, one stranger glancing in the wrong direction, and it all could tumble down. Even if he does everything right. That’s why he likes it. It gives him a bigger adrenaline boost.  
It’s the end of his second semester in undergrad and finals week is days away. I’ve heard him talking about it a bit and remember him from last semester. I don’t understand why anyone would willingly submit themselves to two three-hour exams, three ten-page papers, and a half-hour long presentation all in one week. It sounds like actual hell for me. I wouldn’t even finish reading the first question in three hours. And if I had to present anything to anyone it would probably be a middle finger.  
So, he’s a bit stressed out, to put it mildly. He spends a lot of time in the library reviewing. Sometime when the atmosphere there becomes too toxic he comes home and I cook for him and generally just try to distract him. I know he doesn’t have the brainpower. He almost put mayonnaise in his porridge the other morning thinking it was the milk.  
The other day he came home with a gift for me, a long black hooded coat with lots of buttons. It was nice, warm, and fit me well enough when I tried it on. He beamed, but I looked at him skeptically.  
“Who did this belong to?”  
“Nobody.”  
“Nobody, or nobody important?”  
He hesitated, but I wasn’t going to stop asking, and he knew it. “…The second one.”  
“Hm.”  
“You needed a new coat.”  
“My old one is fine.”  
“Your old one is grimy and torn up. You’ve left it out in the woods too many times. This one looks much better on you.”  
“That doesn’t matter to me, you know that.”  
“I do. But it matters to me. I like when you look nice. And when you look…not so nice.” His expression changed and I scoffed, swiping a hand through my hair, hiding my face.  
“You’re trying to change the subject.”  
“You’re blushing.”  
“I think…you should return this.”  
He hesitated.  
“I just…I’m trying to be better. You know that. I don’t want us to have to act like criminals anymore.”  
He sighed.  
I paused. I wasn’t sure how continue. I don’t like how anxious he’s been—it makes me nervous. I know Gabriel is a good thief. But he hasn’t been sleeping much this week, and he’s tired and strained. I understand that this is how he relaxes himself, but it’s also illegal. Not that we really had any problem with that before. But before, it was impossible to avoid. Now it's not. Now it’d just be a matter of me chugging Van’s potion and checking the cell phone when he doesn’t come back at night to make sure the police didn’t pick him up. “Gabriel. I—You were the first person to give me a gift in years. I treasure that knife. I don’t know how you got it. You might have stolen it. But we were at war then, so I get that. But not now. ”  
He bit his lip and cocked an eyebrow, knowing that I had a point but unwilling to relent.  
“I know we don’t have a lot of money right now. And I know college is stressful. But you’ve been so out of it—I don’t want you getting in trouble over nothing. Okay?”  
He sighed again. “Okay.”  
I held the coat out to him. He took it back. “I’ll put it in a lost and found or something.” He turned to leave.  
I stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “..Thank you.”  
He smiled, small but there. “You don’t need to say that.”  
And then he left through the cut again.

He hasn’t been stealing, like I asked. However he has been drinking so much coffee I think it’s in his veins.  
“How many cups is that today?”  
“Only four.”  
We’re in the kitchen. He’s sitting at the table huddled over a mug, looking ragged. I’m sitting on the counter.  
“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack. I didn’t keep you alive just for that to happen.”  
“We kept each other alive. I’ve had worse days.”  
“That’s…alarming.”  
He laughed, though it was higher than usual. “I still have two exams and a paper to finish. I have to study for my Political Violence test.”  
“Aren’t we a testament to political violence?”  
“Well, yes, but. I mean technicalities. Like definitions. And things.”  
“When is it?”  
“Tomorrow afternoon.”  
“It’s not even evening yet.”  
“Well, yeah, but I have that paper due in three days…”  
“I don’t see a laptop with you.”  
“I know how much you hate that potion. I don’t want to make you drink it.”  
“I wouldn’t mind if it gave you some peace.”  
“I would mind. Besides, this is good, to keep my schoolwork in the library. Each place has its assigned action. I feel more organized that way.” I watch him get up to put his empty mug in the sink. “Home is for being with you.”  
“How romantic.”  
“It is.”  
“Hm.” I reach from my seat pull him away from the sink, so he’s standing between my legs. His hands are on the counter either side of me. I brush his hair back behind his ear. “Then be with me. Your brain is still in the library.” I hold the side of his neck and bring my face in close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips, the ghost of a touch.  
“Are you here?” I ask, almost brushing his lips as I speak.  
“Yes,” he breathes.  
“Good.” I press our lips together.

After we’re done, Gabriel is much more relaxed.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you want to go to Australia?”  
“Why?”  
“I’ve never been to Australia. I’d like to see the reef. And a beach would be nice right about now.”  
“Alright.”  
“What about California? Would you like to go there?”  
“Too many people.”  
“Not in the northern parts.”  
“…hm.”  
“I’ve always thought Thailand would be interesting to visit.”  
“That’s nice.”  
“I appreciate the enthusiasm.”  
“You’re the one excited, Gabriel. Just choose one and I’ll go with you.”  
“I’d like if you’d like to go there as well.”  
“I like Wales.”  
“I know, that’s why we live here.”  
“…Yeah.”  
“Out of the three, which would you like to go to best?”  
“Which one is least crowded?”  
“It depends on where we go, but probably Australia.”  
“I’ll go there.”  
“Good. That’s set.”  
“When do you want to go?”  
“Why not now?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

G.

When I took him to the Musée d’Orsay he stood in front of the paintings for hours. He loved the impressionists so much. He studied them, and I studied him.  
The way the light stuck to his cheekbones, forehead, the tip of his nose and the small scar to the left of it in splotches. The way the perpetual lines around his mouth and near his eyes disappeared. The shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheeks. The soft black of his hair, the light pink of his lips, the gentle grey of the scarf he chose. Even the way he held himself was different, his shoulders relaxed, his arms uncrossed, his head to the side. He looked like one of the paintings he admired so.  
He never did notice me staring, but in that moment I wished to have Nathan’s talent with artwork, to capture the way he looked and what it meant.  
I could look at him forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

G.

So I wanted to get him a little drunk.  
I wanted to see if his cheeks would get a little redder, if his smile was a little freer, if he’d be more relaxed around other people.  
That’s not the worst thing in the world.  
But now walking back to him from the bathroom I can see some other guy sitting next to him and talking. Not that that would be a big deal, normally. And Nathan isn’t so drunk he’s lost his wariness—he’s scooted all the way back to the armrest, leaning against it. Still engaging, because I know he’s trying to be better around other people, but not at all what you’d call interested. But this guy is drunk and he’s not catching any of his signals. He’s leaning in with his arm around the couch above him and I can see the dangerous look in Nathan’s eyes warning him not to come closer.  
“Nathan,” I say, walking up. Both their faces turn to me, Nathan’s full of relief and the other’s full of annoyance. “Would you like to go outside with me for a bit?”  
He nods and gets up. The other guy tries to grab his wrist, tries to ask him “why don’t you stay”—but Nathan snatches his hand back.  
For emphasis (among other things) I kiss him, hard, on the mouth. Run my fingers through his hair, take his hand, and lead him out, turning to smile sweetly and wave at the guy dumbfounded and alone as we leave.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

G

After his worst nightmares, he used to push me away. I’d hear him sobbing at night and hold him while he cried. At the very beginning, he used to shrug me off, but that stopped after only a little bit. I’m glad for it—it just made us both miserable, listening to him cry and not being able to help him.  
He’d stay with me at night, but once the sun rose, he’d be gone with the darkness. Away in the woods, like the wild animal he was. I wouldn’t see him for the rest of the day, sometimes two. I think he was afraid I would mention his nightmares or reject his feelings, not treat them with the respect they deserved. But as the nights passed and the nightmares kept coming, I was there all the while. I never said anything about them in the daytime unless I felt he wanted me to, which I know he never did. And he noticed.  
Now he’s always around, afterwards. On days we didn’t have to work finding refugees o when I was in undergrad I would skip my classes just so I could bask in his attention a while longer.  
We stay in bed late catching up on lost sleep while the sun rises high in the sky, sometimes moving inside to nap when it gets too bright. I trace his scars. He plays with my hair.  
Sometimes we go running when we get up. Sometimes we stay in and made a large breakfast for ourselves. Either way, whatever we do, he’s always near. We had a conversation about it once, the first time I didn’t just skip my obligations on my own accord.  
He was still asleep as I was untangling myself from him. I had just gotten free when I felt his hand on my arm.  
“Stay,” he said imploringly.  
“Oh,” I started, surprised. I’d never heard Nathan use that tone of voice before. But he beat me to the rest, mistaking my surprise for something else that wasn’t there.  
He shook his head at himself and mumbled something to himself. “You can go.”  
“…No, I don’t think so.”  
He stared at me, opened his mouth as if to talk, and then shut it, waiting for me to continue.  
“Wanting another person’s help isn’t a weakness.”  
“…It’s not…”  
“You do want me here, right, love?”  
“Yeah.”  
“How do you feel, Nathan?”  
“Like…” he paused, his eyes far away.  
I waited for a very long time.  
“Like you’re the only right thing. That my life is a fucked up mess and you’re the eye of the shitshow and if you go it’ll just be one hundred times worse. And I know I’ve done things alone before. I was alone for most of before. But now, the thought of doing it all again, alone again…it’s, it feels like dread.”  
“You’re not going to be alone again. Not anymore.”  
“But how is this…” he stopped.  
“How is it what?”  
“This sort of—when I think of doing something like going out and traveling without you, this panic I feel—how is that right?”  
“That’s the anxiety, love. You didn’t have it before because you couldn’t afford it—you had to do what needed to be done. But now you’re away from that. You’ve had time to breathe. And you’re seeing what brave and frightening things you’ve done, and you don’t want to have to do them again.”  
“But it’s not even the fighting—I mean, it is, but not only. They’re such simple things, just…it’s just everything. Just not being with you.”  
I sighed. If we were normal kids in our early twenties, it would be different. Everything would be. Nathan would be an entirely different person. Less broken. More confident. Hell, we probably never would have met. Even if we had, we wouldn’t have a relationship as developed as the one we had. We’ve spent nearly every day together since we met years ago. The first day I met him we were sharing an apartment—that doesn’t happen to normal couples.  
I think I would have fallen in love with him right away, no matter what. And if we’d had a normal life I have no idea what Nathan would have been like. Probably still happily dating Annalise. But if it hadn’t been for the war, for our forced closeness, he would have shaken me off. Slipped away. Gone, forever.  
So despite all the horrible, terrible things that happened, one good thing did come out of it.  
I sat close next to him. “PTSD manifests in a lot of ways. What you’re shaming yourself for is just it manifesting itself as social anxiety. I like to think people are generally good, but you’ve met so many bad ones, love. It makes sense you’re not eager to go out and meet others. And it doesn’t help you that Van only started making you your potions after months of isolation. After getting used to living like that, with such limited interaction, it makes sense you’d be apprehensive to get up and go back into the world again. And maybe that’s a bit of my fault, too, because I haven’t made as much of an effort as I could to take you out more. But don’t be ashamed about wanting me around. Don’t be ashamed about needing me. I want to be wanted. I want to be needed. As long as you need me, you won’t be alone.”  
He bit his lip and nodded slowly.  
“You’re still troubled.”  
“When that…When I had that vision, the one where, you know, I thought you were—when I had it I felt so broken. I felt like someone had eaten _my_ heart. I never understood before why they call it heartache. But I was demolished. If you had actually—if you had actually died there would be nothing of me left.”  
He wasn’t meeting my eyes. “Do you think that means you’re weak?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“I do,” I told him. I took his hand, sitting limply in his lap, and kissed his knuckles. “It means you’re in love.”  
He scoffed.  
“It’s true.”  
“It’s dangerous.”  
“Dangerous, but so much more as well.”  
He nodded a little.  
I kissed his cheek. “You’re not weak, Nathan Byrn. Not at all.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

G.

“Nathan, I’m fine.”  
He just ignores me and continues agitatedly making tea.  
“Why can’t I heal it?” he asks the kettle.  
“Because it’s not a wound, it’s an illness. A minor one. I’ll be fine in a week.”  
“I don’t get sick.”  
“Well, your Gifts are stronger than mine.”  
“I shouldn’t have dunked you in the lake.”  
“No, you shouldn’t have—because I’m going to get you back for it.”  
He shakes his head and murmurs an insult.  
I start to say something else, but it catches in my throat and I have a coughing fit instead.  
“You should go to bed.”  
“I bought the bed with me.” I wave my arm, indicating the blanket I have wrapped around myself. “It’s not like I’m doing anything strenuous. I’m not out climbing. I just have to finish that paper.”  
“Hm.” He pours us both tea and sits next to me. I get a little self-conscious with him staring—I don’t exactly look my best right now, hair tied up, nose red, eyes watery—and sniffle a bit.  
“It’s just a cold, Nathan.”  
“Mph.” He holds is mug and looks out the window for a bit, until we’re done. It’s raining outside fairly hard. It might be Nathan’s doing, but it’s probably just Wales. It’s been raining since September.  
“You should take a nap.”  
I eye the pillows distastefully. “Didn’t you get colds before you got your Gift? If I lie down my nose will get stuffed. I have to sit to breathe.”  
“Sounds like it’s difficult anyway,” he retorts, noting that I’m pronouncing my “th” more like a “d”.  
“Smart ass,” I say and laugh at him. And then cough some more.  
“Come on,” he tells me, and tugs on the blanket.  
“I have a paper. And I’m going to mouth-breathe. It’ll be disgusting.”  
“It’ll be fine. Sit.”  
I sit down, and he positions himself behind me. He pulls me into his chest, and the angle we’re laying is still high enough for me to breathe easily.  
I can feel his chest move with his breathing. He wraps one arm around me so he can hold my hand. With the other he pets my hair.  
“Is this alright?”  
I hum happily in response. He kisses the top of my head.  
I’m tired, but he falls asleep before I do, his head falling on my shoulder and his hand going slack in mine.  
I’ll write the paper later.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first one is nathan's perspective about the oc i created who's essentially Edge but not Annalise's kid and with a better name and better timing for when Nathan is actually mentally stable enough to not continue the cycle of neglect and abuse which is a horrible trend to write into the series and i'm still v bitter about
> 
> second one is gab, casual drabbly what-not
> 
> third is nathan again talking with ellen

N.

The baby’s so small. God, how can a person be so small? He’s so tiny. He could just break to bits.  
I’m standing next to his crib, watching him sleep. Gabriel told me to sleep while I could, that he would be up and crying again soon and then we’d get no sleep, but I get nervous. What if he rolls over on his stomach and can’t breathe? I’ve heard of that happening. Or what if he wakes up and is scared? Can he even be scared already? I don’t know. So I watch him instead, because that’s better than anxiously lying in bed keeping Gabriel up.  
He’s only been here for a short time so far. He’s so small. But the wrinkles on his face are gone now, and he looks more like the babies I’ve seen in pictures. He’s still bald, but his eyes are bright green, and every time he looks at me I’m reminded that he’ll really be a person one day, in his own right, with his own thoughts and feelings, and Gabriel and I will be the ones who helped him become that.  
I really hope I don’t fuck it up.  
God, he’s so small.  
I’ve gotten over my fear of touching him, mostly. But sometimes I see my scarred hand holding his head up and it’s so jarring I need Gabriel to hold him, because I can’t anymore.  
I want to protect him, but I’m afraid I don’t know how.  
What if he grows up and doesn’t like me?  
What if he learns about all the things I’ve had to do and is ashamed of me?  
I don’t know if I could handle that.  
Our child. He’s ours.  
What have we done?

He wakes up and makes a sound like he’s going to start crying. I make reassuring noises and pick him up, arms around him, stroking the little peach fuzz on his head with my thumb, and rock him back and forth.  
I take some deep breaths and try to think about nothing. Gabriel told me that babies are really sensitive to emotions, so I should try to be calm around him. I don’t know if he was just saying that to make me calm or if it was actually true, but either way, it helps to be more relaxed around Henri.  
I pace and rock him for about a half an hour before putting him back to bed.  
Shit.  
My little grass-stain boy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

G.

“Run with me.”  
I groan into the pillow and pull the blanket more securely around me. The sun has barely risen. It’s still chilly out. The birds have hardly begun to sing.  
I feel something soft hit the back of my head. It’s my running shorts.  
“Now.”

We run for six miles before I break away and let Nathan keep going. I raise my hands over my head, panting, trying to walk the stitches out of my sides. Lean against a tree and stretch my legs out. Sit for a while.  
The sun is higher in the sky now, but I can still see my breath.  
I’ll wait fifteen more minutes, and then I’ll start walking back. I know he’s bound to double back for me at some time, so I’ll walk the same route we used to get here and convince him to make a cut back to the house when we meet.  
I get up, dust myself off, and start walking. The route he chose today is one of his favorites—across a river, over steep mounds and small hills entirely composed of roots so close together it feels like a mad roller coaster when I’m running too fast.  
I’ve walked just out of the thick of the trees, near the edge of a field, when he pounces.  
Of course he was trailing me. Waiting for a good time to jump so we’d have a soft landing.  
My breath catches in my lungs. My heart stops and my adrenaline spikes, but my nose registers his scent before my brain can catch up and I’m left wide-eyed with nothing to do but exhale.  
“Shit, Nathan, you—”  
He presses our lips together before I can finish, roughly. Stands of hair that fell out of my tie-up stick between our faces.  
Well, I’m not one to pass up a good opportunity.  
I grab his hair and pull him closer. We’re kissing hard enough to bruise and all I can think of is more.  
I sit up and pull him into my lap, our faces never more than centimeters away. His skin is hot and he’s still short of breath but there’s gooseflesh down his arms. He runs his hands down my spine and I pull off his shirt and kiss his neck and in all the sharp movements and rough gestures I gently run my fingers down his sensitive spot where the nape of his neck meets his shoulders and he wasn’t expecting that. He shivers and gasps and pulls me impossibly closer. I bite the soft skin near his collarbone and mark it with a kiss.  
And we’re rolling and pinning each other and it’s as much a game as it’s so, so serious.  
His eyelids are heavy and he has that look in his eyes. The kind that whites out my mind with nothing but desire and he knows it.  
The cold from where he kisses my skin burns in the early morning light.  
He grabs my shoulders and rolls under me, pulling me on top of him.  
His eyes are dark and endless. He keeps kissing me. He’s pure chaos and it’s overwhelming in the best way. He’s breaking me apart, like always.  
Scratches on my shoulder. Fingers in my hair. Teeth skimming my ear.  
“I want you,” he says between breaths.

He always gets what he wants.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

N.

Ellen doesn’t like talking about it much. What happened, that day.  
I don’t blame her.  
(“The end of the world is a touchy subject.”)  
But, you know.  
The world moves on, and then it ends again. It always happens like that. (“Because it spins, Nathan. It always comes back to the start. Or the end.”)  
She’s too young to think like that. We all are too young.  
This shouldn’t have happened to us. But it did. You know.  
She lived in one of Van’s apartments after everything. She hacked for her, among other reasons. For the others. For herself, she told me. (“I can’t have my family back, but they might have theirs.”)  
I’m there when I can be. Sometimes we’re both bad.  
I…Deb, you were always so good at things like this. Rock solid.  
I wish you could talk to her.  
What would you say?

We don’t talk much when we hang out together.  
“Ivan.”  
“Nikita.”  
We sit next to each other. Sometimes she leans her head on my shoulder. Sometimes I wrap my arm around her.  
She used to be so full of life. Indomitable. Full of generosity and kindness.  
She’s still kind, but grief sharpens it. Makes it something difficult.  
“I should have died with them, but I didn’t.”  
“No one should have died.”  
“But they did, Nathan.”  
But they did, Nathan.  
Could I have done something to stop it?  
All the times I’d seen Jessica before, all the times I’d encountered Soul and Wallend and all the other White Witches in charge. What if I had killed them then?  
What time, what number in time could have made the number of dead bearable?  
“I’m sorry, Ellen.”  
“It’s not your fault.”  
But, in a way, it was.  
It feels like it was.

I grow her flowers, sometimes.  
Blue periwinkle flowers and magnolia blossoms. Sometimes others, but mostly those two.  
She likes puzzles, codes. It’s why she’s so good at hacking. I thought she would get it, the meaning in the flowers. Friendship. Endurance. She did.  
She doesn’t say much, but she did.

I try to be there for her. And some days I can’t, because I’m sad or angry or shitty and when I can even get to sleep I can’t get out of bed the next day, and when I can’t sleep my memories take ahold of me I run through the night and hide from the sun.  
Those are the days I can’t help her, and I feel guilty for that, on top of everything else.  
I can hardly take care of myself.  
She shouldn’t have to take care of herself.  
I would be nobody’s first choice. But I’m the one who’s here.

“I had a family, once.”  
I look at her. So sad. Such big sadness makes her look so small.  
She doesn’t talk to me. Not really. But it’s more than most others, aside from Arran.  
“…I had a sister, once.”  
She nods, and I hear her breathing.  
I’ve never seen her cry.  
She’s one of three people on this earth I really like. Love, maybe.  
“Arran and I…and maybe Gabriel, sometime in the future…” —it’s such a strange thing, to have a future—“that’s a family. But, not much of one. Too small. Not enough women.”  
She has a question in her ocean eyes, even though I can already see she knows the answer.  
“It’s not much, but…you’re already there, really. And, it’ll be different, I know, but I…”  
I don’t want to see her so hurt, too.  
“I know. Thank you.” She pauses, her hand hovering over her mouth, not staring at the sky. “Thank you.”  
“Anything for you, Nikita.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another few drabbles about these two because I got the uncontrollable urge to ignore the third book and insert my own ideas instead, so here you have it
> 
> from Gab's perspective, around the end of Trust No One

G.

I’ve been trying out my Gift some more. I’ve gotten very good at it. I never had the same problem you did, where you couldn’t keep it up for very long. Once the mask is in place, it’s there until I let it go.  
I’ve been throwing myself into it, into our searches. Nathan’s noticed that I’ve been getting a little obsessive recently. Not that that’s entirely bad—just last week we led a successful raid. There were only two Whets there, but numbers don’t matter. Not really. Just lives.  
“I think you should slow down a bit.”  
“I’m fine, Nathan.”  
“When is the last time you’ve eaten?”  
“I’ll eat right now.”  
There’s just so much that needs to be done, he doesn't understand. I can't slow down. We’re trying to move the refugees as fast and as safely as we can—especially the Whets. We’re trying to get them back to their family. Both so they have peace of mind and familiar faces to be with and also because, on the more logical side, Van needs apartments free for others’ temporary lodging.  
Ellen is helping out a lot with that. Her apartment isn’t temporary. When I have time, I cook her food. I bring her books. I know it’s a meager gesture, but it’s one that she welcomes. Nathan cherishes her so much, so of course I try to help her however I can. It’s hard for me, though. Sometimes. To be around her. She just reminds me so much of. Well, you know.  
Anyway.  
I’ve gotten very good at discerning the nuances in others’ faces. Little laugh lines, tiny frown lines. A freckle just under an eyebrow. A tooth just a little crooked. All the little details make the mask so much more believable.  
“I haven't seen you sleep in a while.”  
“I sleep after you.”  
“Whenever I wake up, you’re already awake.”  
“There’s a lot I have to do. You know that.”  
He knows that. He definitely does. He’s been busy, too.  
“I just think you’re overworking yourself.”  
“I know how to take care of myself, love.”  
I’m not. This work just has to be done. We’ve done so much or the refugees, but there’s always more that can be done. Everything is damaged now, in the wake of war. We need to take care of our own too. I need to make sure Ellen has enough to eat. I know how hard it is, right afterward. She’s probably not cooking for herself. Has she ever even learned? She’s so young. I can’t imagine she knows how to cook that much at all.  
“Gabriel.”  
Maybe I should make her something else. What sort of food would she like? What haven’t I gotten her yet? I've dropped off dinner at least three times this week,  
Indian. She’ll like Indian. I need to go by the store and buy something. I’ll make naan and chicken curry. And what were those mango drinks called? The mango smoothies?  
“Gab, turn around.”  
Mango lassi, that’s what it’s called. I’ll make her some of that too. She likes sweets—it’ll cheer her up, definitely.  
“Gabriel, I know what day it is,” Nathan says softly.  
His words give me pause for a minute, but I keep my back to him. I collect myself. “Alright. I’m going to go over to the shop. Do you want anything?” I say this as I stare at the floor. We need to sweep more in our kitchen. There’s dirt everywhere. I think most of it is from Nathan.  
“Today. Is that why you’ve been keeping so busy lately?”  
Dirt on the floor. Dirt under my fingernails. I should get that out. Right now.  
I don’t hear Nathan as he pads over to me. I start a bit when he reaches out to cover my hands with his, stilling them.  
He cards his fingers through my hair and cups my cheek in his hand. The longer we’ve been together, the gentler he’s become. Because he knows I don’t expect him to be vicious the way others do. Because he knows I want to know him. Because he knows he can trust me. Because he knows he can love me, and I love him back. And he knows that sometimes, not even that is enough.  
He looks at me and I see all my sadness reflected in his eyes.  
He holds me, and I finally let myself cry.  
I will always be broken over you. I carry the pieces everywhere with me. The best thing I can do is learn to live with it.

Happy birthday, Michele.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I almost stopped writing fics for this series, but lets be real. Sally Green may have stomped on my heart while wearing stilettos but I adore the universe she created, even if I disagree with what she made of it.
> 
> This chapter is entirely dedicated to Ellen, who is kick-ass and deserves way more character development because I love her. This entire thing doesn't follow canon and, like all these other blurbs, follows my other fic instead.

E.

My apartment is empty, but it’s been that way for a while.  
It hasn’t been easy, but then simple never is.  
Arran is an angel. For someone so extraordinarily unlucky, Nathan is very lucky.  
When it first happened, and I couldn’t speak, he was there.  
He was there when nobody else was.  
I escaped the end of the world, but then I had to live in it.  
I was alone.  
Whenever I closed my eyes, all I could see was them. From my hiding place behind the closed doors I watched between the shuttered slats my world crumble before me. I could hear it, what happened, and it took whatever voice I thought I had away from me. I couldn’t ever speak. I couldn’t ever sleep. I couldn’t ever eat.  
I had to leave before they were buried. I had to leave as fast as I could. I couldn’t even say goodbye to them, because I was already running, my legs not moving fast enough, my sneakers pounding on the ground.  
I back to everyone, but everyone I trusted was gone. Nathan off saving the world, Gabriel in tow. Neither realized I was there or what happened until much later, after I was settled. Bob was still underground somewhere, having never returned after fleeing Cobalt Alley. And I didn’t trust Van as far as I could throw her, which was to say not at all.  
Arran was the healer, but during the missions, when everyone else was losing their heads and chaos was erupting on the field, we stayed at the camp, hidden with the other healers. No use for a doctor when all you need is spies. No use for a doctor with no combat experience when everyone is hidden in the trees, poised to shoot and run. He wasn’t battle trained: he wasn’t stealthy: he’d just slow them down or give them away. Better for them to try not to get shot and fix what they could when they returned.  
It would have been different if there was an actual battlefield. But we didn’t want that. An army against a wobbly insurgency would not have bidden well for us.  
We waited together often. He wanted a distraction. I wanted someone to be there.  
I didn’t want to talk, but he was used to that. He talked to me instead.  
He would tell me stories about his childhood, about when he was my age. About him and Deb and Nathan. Jessica was rarely mentioned, and when he was, his face screwed up like she’d just swallowed a lemon.  
A lot of his stories were funny. The time Nathan got stuck in a tree and it took both of them and Gran to get him out. The time Deb accidentally drank paintwater thinking it was coffee. The portrait of them that Nathan drew, before he could even read. When Deb put hair dye in his shampoo and he had blue hair for a week.  
All of his stories were sad, though he meant none of them to be.  
They made me nostalgic for a family I had never had, and one that I never would.  
My parents were supposed to go to my high school graduation. I’d taken AP Calc just for my dad.  
My mom was supposed to help me get ready for prom. She was supposed to do my hair in curls and take embarrassing pictures of me with a boy who I’d go with grudgingly, because that’s how it was supposed to go, and I’d play it off when she would ask if I had a good time with him, as if I wouldn’t have left the party to go kiss his brother’s date while we lifted our skirts so they wouldn't get wrecked running away.  
I was supposed to fight with them, and get annoyed with them, and be embarrassed of them. I wasn’t supposed to grieve them.  
But then, I do a lot of things I’m not supposed to.

Arran was swamped. He came to visit me less. I understand why.  
I tried to occupy myself. Not much for a fifteen year old girl to do in a war besides be a runner. I ran clothing, medical supplies, sometimes people to and fro from wherever they were to wherever they needed to be.  
I got used to seeing blood.

There was a girl. She was older than me. She died in that final battle, not that she knew it was the last one. The one where Soul died, Van won, and Nathan broke.  
She never knew. But she knew me, a little.  
She was my first kiss. She had cornflower blue eyes with flecks of green and silver. A cluster of freckles across her nose and on her right cheekbone. Wispy baby hairs which her ponytail could never contain that fluttered around her head as she run, jumped, laughed.  
She laughed a lot. I rarely did.  
She liked my eyes, and she never said goodbye.  
What would I have said?  
I don’t think I’d be very good at goodbyes anyway.

When the fighting stopped, Van set me up in a guest room in her place. Her house was so big, I had an entire wing to myself. She’d told me I didn’t have to pay, that I could live there indefinitely. She played it off like it was nothing, but I knew she was being very generous. She knew I knew it too.  
I mostly ate my meals alone. Sitting at an empty table was better than sitting at one with people who weren’t my family.  
I didn’t know how to cook, not really. Just basic meals. Nesbitt helped with that, not that I ever told Nathan. He’s a bit of a dick, but he is talented. And it was nice to have someone with such a sense of humor around. Arran is a bright force, but I find most of the time I’m laughing at him and not his puns. And Nathan has re-gained a bit of the humor he lost, but it’s mostly the sharp, biting kind. Nesbitt could just laugh at anything. It was nice.

I had a lot of people watching out for me, but I was never really anyone’s priority. Knowing that sort of thing hurts, even if you tell yourself it’s not their fault.

It was more difficult for me to deal with this quiet kind of violence than the raw, moving kind that lived during the war.  
I was alone a lot.  
Arran was consumed by his studies. When he wasn’t studying he was with Adele. I never learned much about her, never wanted to. It was a strange relationship he and I had, but one that worked. As long as I didn’t think about how much more I needed him than he needed me.  
When he wasn’t with Adele, he was with me.  
When he wasn’t with me mentally I knew he was wondering after Nathan.  
I wondered after him too. About what the fighting did to him. About what it did to all of us. And I thought.  
How lucky Arran was, with so many people alive and crowding his mind. Mine was just filled with ghosts and the fictional people in the books I read.  
I fiddled with technology. I wanted to make a connection. I wanted to learn about people. But I couldn’t bear to have to lose someone all over again. If I relegated them to a screen, it was easier. I wouldn’t have to lose them, because they were never really mine to start with.

I got very good at hacking.  
It was a difficult time.

Arran cared for me. He made that abundantly clear. He’s the sort of person who just can’t help but care. I wish there were more of those people. The world would be a much better place.  
Nathan cared for me when he could. He tried his best. He’s never been one for words, but sometimes, that was better than Arran’s questions. A searching gaze, a nod, an arm around my shoulders. A sweet-smelling breeze from the forest, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the calm of the woods. His presence was always undeniable but never demanding.  
Sometimes he’d have bad days and visit me anyway.  
It made me feel special, when he’d do that. Have bad days, but still try so hard. He knew how difficult it was for me some days, just surviving while feeling so alone. I think he felt alone too, sometimes. So he would show up, those days, even if he was exhausted. Even if he didn’t want to get out of bed. Even if all we did was sit near each other quietly doing other things. Even if all we did was lie in the grass and nap. He’d always get up for me.  
“I’d feel worse if I didn’t,” he said to me, when I told him he didn’t have to force himself out of the house for me. “I don’t want to let you down.”  
“You wouldn’t be letting me down.”  
“Yes,” he said, “I would be.”

Gabriel would warn me on the days Nathan was really bad. He’d leave me a short message, just letting me know if Nathan had a panic attack or if he’d disappeared off into the woods.  
Sometimes Gab tried to visit me, but he was always busy. He worked a lot.  
I minded, but not so much.  
“I prefer you,” I’d told Nathan once. He was shocked. He scoffed and shook his head, pulling up handfuls of weeds from the grass beneath us.  
“He’s much better than I am.”  
“Not at everything, Ivan.”  
I liked the way his face would soften a bit when I called him Ivan. I knew he didn’t wear that expression often.  
“No. I’m better at killing.”  
I side-eyed him when he said that. He didn’t have any of the arrogance or aggressiveness I imagined would have been on another’s face. Only resignation and a little sadness. “Are you looking for pity?”  
He huffed a grudging laugh. “I suppose not.”  
“You’re better at letting things be. The silence. Letting things go without being said.” I paused, taking a deep breath and curling my legs into myself. “You can’t pick at a scab all the time if you want it to heal.”  
He nodded and tightened the arm around me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

E.

I didn’t visit him when everything went to hell.  
Arran and Gabriel both told me to stay away. That he was too dangerous. That he didn’t know what he was doing, that he couldn’t control himself, that he might hurt me.  
I tried not to worry. Most times it worked. I only cried twice.  
I kept myself occupied. I didn’t have access to my family’s money, not until I was eighteen. I mostly read books. I’d gotten my hands on some old technology and fiddles idly with it when I needed something to do with my hands, trying to see how it worked. By then I’d re-enrolled in a different high school, one Van was also paying for. Her ability with cuts made it easy to attend any one I wanted. I was months ahead in my studies. My friends were few and far between—something about surviving a war made it difficult for me to invest myself in petty gossip or junior prom.  
Sometimes I hacked their social media accounts, just to see if I could.  
There was a group in my school, the vapid wealthy kids with lives I wanted. I hacked all their accounts. It was fun to see their simple drama and the chaos that ensued after I brought it out in open air online.  
So, I was a little jealous. A little destructive. And I may have thought all my struggles made me better, smarter, or wiser than they were. I may have used it as justification.  
I was sixteen, broke, bored and lonely. All my friends consumed in something greater than myself. Of course I was bitter.  
Van made me an offer.  
She would pay for my further education. She would find someone to instruct me. If I hacked for her.  
She needed a hacker. I needed something to pull me out of my apathy.  
It was a good trade-off.

I was very good at hacking. I still am.  
It’s been two years.

I hack for the refugees. To find their families. It’s only fitting, after all. Considering I am one, and have none.  
There’s one girl who’s here. Not here, here. She lives a cut away in one of the apartments Van owns, for now.  
She’s so brave, this girl. Really something.  
She challenges everything. She’s made of fire. Her eyes shine with it.  
When she first came here, it was been as an escaped prisoner from the place Nathan and Gabriel had been taken. She made sure nobody treated her like a victim. She insisted on having a long conversation with Van before anything else, including medical attention.  
She has black hair, thick and curly and so dark it shines blue in the sunlight.  
She has passion where I just feel empty.  
Her name is Natalie.  
I want to be her friend, but I’ve forgotten how to be friendly like I used to.  
I think I want to be her something else, as well, but I don’t talk about that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

E.

She’s nineteen and two and a half months old. She was born in Brighton, England. Moved around a lot as a kid. Has a little brother, divorced parents. He’d been living with their mother in Canada when the fighting broke out.  
Her dad is dead.  
I didn’t want to tell her. I didn’t want the first conversation I had with her to be bad news. I got Van to instead.  
How do I talk to someone I know so much about, but knows nothing about me?  
I haven’t done this in a long time, made friends. Talked just to make conversation. Whenever I talk to the refugees it’s usually to get information. Not to say I’m brusque—I know what they’ve been through. I try to be kind. But I’m not used to trying to make friends. As bad as it is for me to say, after a while, all the sad faces just sort of blend together.  
Next time I see her around the house, I’ll try to talk to her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

E.

“Hey.”  
“Oh, hi.”  
“How’s it going?”  
“Not bad.”  
“I’m Ellen, by the way.”  
“I’m Natalie. Didn’t I meet you before?”  
“Yeah, right when you and the others got here, I took down all your names and information. I’m surprised you remember.”  
“Yeah, it was all a whirlwind. But I’m good with faces.”  
“Apparently.”  
“I haven’t seen you on any operations. What do you do here?”  
“I take down people’s information and see if I can track down their family, especially if they haven’t had their Giving yet. I’m just a hacker.”  
“That’s really impressive. I could never do that.”  
“It’s not too hard. Just coding and whatnot. Once you’ve got the basics down everything else comes pretty quickly.”  
“But you’re going through birth records, government and hospital records right?”  
“Essentially, yeah.”  
“I thought that was illegal.”  
“Not if you don’t tell anyone about it.”  
She laughs at that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

E.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for what I’m starting.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I met someone. And I really…I really like them. But I feel like I’ll push them away and ruin everything.”  
“Push them away because of them, or because of you?”  
“The latter.”  
Nathan let that sit for a while, looking out into the lake. We were perched on an abandoned dock in the woods near the cottage he shared with Gabriel.  
“You want to know something?”  
“What?”  
“I was afraid of the something similar.”  
“With Gabriel?”  
“Mm-hmm.”  
“But you two work so well together.”  
“We’ve had our disagreements. The trick is remembering who they are.”  
“How?”  
“I…” he runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. While he’s distracted I look at the scars on his hand. I know he thinks it’s hideous, because of what it is and the memories he has with it, but I think it’s interesting. Nathan wouldn’t have his character if he didn’t also have his scars. “I think of him. Of him at his best. Of him at his worst. I try to remember the last thing he said to me. The last conversation we had. The trick is to not idealize him—that’s what I was worried about.”  
He looks at me for a bit. “But. I don’t think you’re quite there yet, Nikita.”  
I raise an eyebrow at him.  
“Don’t go worrying over a crush. When you think you’re in love, then we’ll have this conversation.”  
“Okay, Dad.”  
He laughs. “You’re the only kid I’ll ever have. Too bad for you I’d be a crap parent.”  
I shrug. “You’re a pretty good friend, though.”  
His voice is warm. “Thanks, Ellen.”  
“Welcome, Nathan.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I am still trash and love this ship way too much and try too hard
> 
> Basically all Nabriel and that kid Henri from the other story

G.

“Come here.”  
It’s been rainy and cold all week. Nathan, all bundled up in sweaters, lit a fire in the sitting room while I was in the kitchen making tea. He lifts the edge of the blanket he’s wrapped around himself on the couch as I bring out our mugs. I give one to him and set the other down to cool.  
I climb in and sit close next to him, wrapping my arms around his waist gently so the tea won’t slosh around and bury my head in his shoulder. The fire lights up his hair, giving it and his face an orange tinge. He smells like the rain and the forest.  
He shifts closer into me and sighs contentedly, holding the tea close to his face with sweater-covered hands. We stay like that for a while, listening to each other breathe and to the crackle of the fire.  
I kiss the soft skin just under his jaw. I’ve told him I love him so many times already today, but I think it’s important to say it when I feel it. Even if it gets redundant. I repeat it because at that moment I’ve become aware, again, of how much I care for him. And he needs to know that. He’s been through so much and been so alone, I want to fill these days with as much happiness and meaning as I can. He knows I always mean it.  
“I love you, Nathan.”  
“I love you too,” he says quietly, warmth in his eyes from more than just the fire.  
He’s come so far from the closed off, angry boy he used to be. I’m so proud of him. I’m so happy he picked me to help him. I’m so lucky I get to see him like this, so happy and soft. I hold him a little tighter and press a kiss to his temple.  
He sets his tea on the ground and leans over to wrap his arms around my shoulders, pulling me down to lie on the couch with him. He curls into my chest, his hair tickling my neck, his legs intertwining with mine, his fingers in the fabric of my sweater. I push his hair back slowly from his forehead, the strands soft as silk under my fingers.  
His steady breaths lull me to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

N.

When we first had Henri was a really hard time for me.  
I loved him, I love him, I’ll always love him. But that’s why it was so hard.  
I loved him so much, but he was so good. So little, so fragile. I’d never measure up to what he deserved. What I should have been.  
I went through the same type of thinking with Gab, before. But Gabriel chose me, so it was different. He knew how I was. He knew all my gaping faults. This little tiny human never got a choice.  
I used to fall into anxious spirals.  
What if I wasn’t good enough for him?  
What if I wasn’t kind enough for him?  
What if I hurt him?  
God, what if I hurt him. What if I hurt him. What if I, what if I, what if I—  
I would get stuck in cyclical thinking like that. Over and over and over I would just think of all the things that could go wrong, of all the things I could cause to go wrong, and then everything would end. Henri would get hurt. Henri would hate me, Gab would hate me. My life would be over. I’ve done this wrong, I’ve let them in and I’ve loved them too much and now that they’ve been invited into the cracked and damaged hollows of my heart they’ve looked around and decided they don’t want to live somewhere so decrepit, they don’t want to love someone so broken, and it’s my fault, I’ll be alone, alone, alone again and I’ll have no one to blame but myself. They’ll go off together and leave me. And Aaran will have Adele and Ellen will be immersed in her studies, like she always is, and nobody will notice, and nobody will care, because really, when it comes down to it, I thought I could never love anyone but I loved them all so much and I was the one nobody wanted to be around, nobody should want to be around, I was horrible, terrible, brutal, violent, I wanted to—I wanted to—  
Well, you know what I wanted to.  
I would pick the skin off my cuticles until they bled. For every bad thought I would pick, pick, pick until my fingers were bloody messes. I healed fast enough that I could hide it from Gabriel.  
I couldn’t hide the hand washing, though.  
It started subtly enough. I thought I could contain it.  
Babies are messy. I know that. And so I would do a lot of washing. Myself, the baby, our clothes, whatever needed it. If I felt like something was particularly unclean I’d give it a good scrub, nothing abnormal. Henri didn’t like staying still for very long, so I couldn’t keep him clean. We played in the woods a lot, so that was to be expected. But I could try to manage everything in the house that needed it.  
I think it started a bit because I felt trapped in the house. I had someone, a small person to take care of who really, truly needed me, and I couldn’t just go running off into the woods whenever I felt like I needed it. I needed to subvert my own impulses to take care of him instead. And I did it gladly—that’s important to note. I tried not to feel bitter towards Henri, because he never got a choice. He was only so little. Gab and I are just who he got. I had and still have an obligation to do what I can for him, because of that. Like my father couldn’t.  
It wasn’t his fault, but I felt trapped and I remembered the dirt under my fingernails, the misery of a rainy night outdoors, the pain of acid running down my hand. I had to wash it off. The pain, the acid, the blood, the blood, the blood. I couldn’t let Henri see what a monster I’d been.  
I would get obsessive. I would go to pick up Henri when he cried, and I’d look down at my hands, at my scars. I would see them covered in red blood. I could practically feel it, sticky and warm on my skin. I’d tell myself I’d be right back, that I’d be quick, that I wouldn’t just let him lay there and cry while I washed and washed and washed and washed my hands. But it never felt like the blood washed off. I could never do it right, even though I didn’t know what right was.

It escalated over the first year and a half we had Henri. I barely noticed at first, but before too much time had passed I was washing my hands for hours at a time.  
I needed to make sure they were clean. I couldn’t touch him until they were clean. Until he was safe. I needed to make sure that he was safe from me, and that meant getting it right. Staying away until I got it right.  
One more time. Just one more time. And another. And another. And another, and another, and another.  
If Henri and I were alone, sometimes his wails became so loud and upsetting that I ripped myself away from the sink to run to him with soapy hands and dry, cracked knuckles and pick him up, more worried now about his discomfort than getting him dirty, even though it hurt to pick him up, even though having him in my arms and knowing I was oozing some terrible filth and covering him in whatever horrible thing I couldn’t wash off made me choke with suppressed emotion.  
Sometimes I didn’t snap out of it, and it was those times I hated most. I was powerless in the face of my anxiety. Stuck in the cycle. I couldn’t touch him, not yet, not now, not until I’ve washed again, again, again. I couldn’t think about what would happen if I didn’t get it right.  
Henri would sob, alone.  
I would look at myself in the mirror and cry.

When Gabriel was around it was easier and harder at once.  
He would try to stop me.  
“Nathan, you can stop now.” He always spoke firmly to me when I got like this. Firm, but never mean. I’m so grateful he was never mean.  
“I’m washing my hands.”  
“Henri has already gone back to sleep.”  
“They’re not clean yet. I didn’t do it right.”  
“Nathan.”  
“I can’t touch him until they’re clean.”  
“Nathan, love.”  
He would come over and wrap his arms around me, his fingers firm on my wrists. If I was particularly bad, on my worse days, I would try to fight him off. I usually managed to control myself enough not to do that, but only if he gave me warning. The first day he tried I elbowed him in the stomach without really breaking my concentration. He wasn’t expecting it, so he went down. I guess, in the long run, his strategy was effective—it managed to get me away from the sink. But I’d become even more distraught than before, healing him as fast as I could and then trying my hardest to get away from him, filled with the terror that I’d continue hurting him. I turned into a bird and flew as hard and as fast as I could away from them. I didn’t return until the next morning to find Gabriel waiting for me in the yard, Henri in his arms, taking the day off from class. He’d settled the baby in the crib and then quietly trailed me through the house and around the garden, hovering. I felt bad that he was taking so much care of me. I felt bad that I’d hurt him over something so small. I felt bad that he was missing class because I freaked out. I felt bad for leaving him to take care of Henri alone. I felt bad for a plethora of things, none of which mattered enough to Gabriel to stop him from wrapping his arms around me at night and gently carding my hair in the way he knows calms me down, rubbing circles in my back.  
On better days than that sometimes he would be able to talk me down from it or set limits. “Only thirty minutes today, Nathan,” he’d say, and he’d always be nearby, keeping track. He didn’t like to stay in the same room because he could see the water turn pink after a while, and I know it upset him so much but I just couldn’t stop. I tried to lessen the time I allowed myself for him, so that it wouldn’t hurt so much. Though, as Nesbitt has pointed out numerous times, it doesn’t actually matter because I can heal.  
Once I was done, he’d pull me close to him and steer me away from the sink. My skin prickled. He wouldn’t try to get me a towel or a first-aid kit for my sorely bleeding knuckles and cuticles or anything, because he knew what a waste that would be. We’d just stand there and breathe.  
I could feel his chin resting on my shoulders, his breath running through my hair. “Better?”  
I would grunt in response, but he knew what it meant. He would bring me a towel. White and pristine. I left red marks on it.  
I hate the color red.

It was around that time he brought up Lucy.  
“Therapy isn’t a bad idea,” he’d murmured quietly, rubbing my shoulders through the blanket wrapped around me. “I’ve been in it for a while, you know. It’s really helped me.”  
I knew it had. He’d stopped having nightmares so frequently. When he had bad days, they looked like my good ones. He was so strong. He was the reason any of this ever worked.  
I had just come down from another panic attack. I stared into the tea he’d made me. My hair felt limp and greasy on my forehead, and I felt disgusting.  
“I’m not saying you have to go,” he continued, still softly, “but I think Lucy could really help you. I know you can’t control it, love, but it hurts me to see you like this.”  
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.  
He clicked his tongue and pulled me closer. “Not your fault.” He rubbed up and down the outside of my arm slowly, his own around me.  
He had a thoughtful expression on, clouded by concern. “I just…” He paused. “I’m worried about you. And I’m worried about Henri. Nathan, you can’t take care of him like this.”  
“I can.”  
“No, you can’t.”  
I didn't answer.  
“You’re prefect, Nathan. You know I think that. But it’s only on your good days that you have enough energy to keep Henri safe. You get caught in your cycles and sometimes you can’t stop. Sometimes you get triggered and have panic attacks that don’t end for ages when I’m not around. I know it’s not your fault, but you can’t tell me you think it would be responsible to leave the baby with you.”  
His words made me angry, but only at myself.  
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, frustrated and distressed. “I’m sorry, I just—I—”  
“Hey, shhh.” He hugged me. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t a good time to talk to you. I’m just worried about both of you. I don’t want either one of you to get hurt.  
“It’s alright to need help, Nathan.”  
I didn’t say anything in return. I pressed closer into him, though, and I thought about it.

Lucy is good. She’s better than I thought she would be. I thought, with her position, she’d be one of two different people. The kind that pick you apart and look at all the pulsing inner workings of your damaged mind with that perverted, animalistic hunger or the kind that gaze at you with wide-eyed pity and believe that they can fix you as though they’re some sort of miracle worker.  
Gabriel teaches me a lot of new words. I think he’d be proud if he heard that little rant.  
Anyway. Lucy is good at her job. She’s nice, but not too nice. She keeps me in line.  
He’d been seeing her for a while. Since we stopped working for Van. Lucy was just a Fain, so, of course, there were things we couldn’t tell her. A lot of things. But she knew we had fought in a war. She knew that it messed us up.  
And, after a few months, she knew about Annalise and Marcus and the O’Brien brothers and Celia and all the rest. That I loved her. That she killed him. That they hurt me. That she abused me.  
It was at that point that I told her I didn’t need medication. She disagreed.  
“I think we’ve made some great progress, Nathan, I really do. But taking medication isn’t acknowledging any sort of personal failure. You’ve been through a lot. You’re strong, but there’s a difference between being strong and being self-punishing. Forcing yourself to go through this isn’t helping you or making you tougher—it’s just making you feel worse.”  
I didn’t say anything.  
She didn’t.  
The silence stretched.  
Most people think silence is uncomfortable. I prefer it. Empty air means there’s nothing anyone can use against you.  
We’ve talked about thinking that way, me and her. I know it’s not healthy to still be this guarded. She says it’s a conditioned response. If I notice the thought, I can acknowledge it, understand I don’t need to think that way, and let it go.  
I’m not good at letting go.  
“I think you should do this for yourself, Nathan. But I know you don’t think the same. So, I’m going to try to impress upon you that this journey you’re taking is about more than yourself. It’s about your son. You want to be there for him, don’t you?”  
It took me a while to respond, but she waited.  
“More than anything.”  
It was hard to get the words out, because I knew where she was going.  
“Then—and I know how hard this is for you—you’re going to have to trust my judgment, if only for now. Just for a little while, to see what happens. It will help.”  
For the first few weeks, it didn’t help. It just flattened me out. I couldn’t feel anything. I was just going through the motions. When Henri wanted to play, I played with him. When Gabriel wanted to cuddle, I did. When either of them wanted to talk I tried my hardest to listen, but I couldn’t get any real emotions behind any of it. I felt lethargic and tired, as though I was trying to move through water. I hated those first few weeks.  
After that, it started getting better. The cycles became less and less common. Sometimes I still have the urge, but I can control it enough to hold it off once I figured out my warning signs. I’m not saying it’s been easy. Trying to stave off my cycles has triggered panic attacks that go on and on. But the more I did it, the less intense the attacks became, and then the less frequent. It took endurance. But if there’s anything I can do, it is endure.  
If it’s still bad when Gabriel comes home, I talk to him and he helps me through it until the impulse leaves. A few times my memories got the best of me and I’d fall back a bit, but Lucy said “you can’t just keep moving forward every day. That’s why it’s a challenge”. We would talk about it, or if I was feeling very, very bleak for a long time she would adjust my medication.  
She helped me a lot. Because she’s cheesy, she tells me, “I’m just teaching you how to help yourself.”  
Really though, all this help would mean nothing without the ones I’m trying so hard to be better for. That’s why I followed Gab’s advice. That’s why I take my medication and try to employ “positive thinking techniques” like Lucy talks about. My motivation came from them. At the start of it, when I was in a very bad place, they were the only reason I even tried. As I’ve been getting better I’m starting to see that maybe I shouldn’t be doing this for them, that I should want to do this for me. That even when I mess up and do things wrong and have bad days I’m still a person and that means I still have value. And I’m slowly trying to reconcile that with the glorified cannon fodder I was made into.  
I don’t think I’ll ever succeed, not fully, but I have to try.  
For them.

For me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
N.

Henri is three years old and I can’t stand when he cries.  
I try not to spoil him. He gets a lot of presents from Aran, Adele and Ellen. I never buy him anything, but I show him everything I can.  
About a quarter mile away from our house we’ve made a strawberry and a blueberry patch. We have a raspberry bush and an apple tree. It would have been nice to have a peach tree, too, but that was a little too ambitious for Wales. I can make plants grow, but I can’t prevent them from withering in climates they most certainly weren’t meant for. I can’t keep a perpetual grip on the weather, after all.  
We go picking berries whenever they’re in season, once or twice a week. In the fall I put him on my shoulders so he can pick the apples for us. Sometimes he watches Gab climb up to the highest branches and he jumps up and down when he makes it to the top. He tells me when he gets bigger he’ll get to the top, too, just like Papa.  
If we’re walking in the woods and the wildlife is kind enough I’ll ask the creatures if they’ll show themselves. It’s a strange sort of tugging sensation that happens in the pit of my stomach, similar to when the animal within me rises up. Henri has seen deer, starlings, and small four-legged creatures of all sorts. Once, from very far away, he saw a wolf that wasn’t me. I kept him in my arms and the wolf, young, alone and timid, didn’t challenge me. She knew there was more strength and wildness in this strange creature than my humanness suggested.  
I try not to let him pet them, though. A good amount of fear and respect is good when it comes to nature. I won’t always be here to protect him from it. I don’t want him to get hurt because I taught him to go against how things are supposed to be for everyone who hasn’t engaged in spectacularly dangerous magic.  
I try not to shift in front of Henri. It confuses and scares him. I did once, into a dog, and although at first he was surprised and excited, he quickly became confused and scared. He started asking for me, and it only took a few times before I shifted back. I didn’t want him to get anxious. It was a little too advanced for him to comprehend, the little one. Seeing his dad disappear in front of his eyes is not quite something he’s ready for at the moment. He’s only just started believing in object permanence—Gabriel reads a lot of books about child psychology to me, so I do actually know what that means.   
Some days I try to teach him what I know about plants. He likes flowers the most. We’ve talked about daisies and daffodils, roses and chrysanthemums, tulips and pansies and lilies. He giggled when I showed him the trick with putting a buttercup under your chin. He likes sunflowers the best, so I made a small patch of them, manipulating the weather so they can grow for a few weeks in the summer. They certainly aren’t the healthiest flowers by far, but they’re pretty enough, and Henri enjoys them. I always lift him up so he can stare into the black circle in the middle, which for some reason always transfixes him. He tells me they look like lion flowers.  
Lions are his favorite animal. Gabriel is reading the Chronicles of Narnia to him right now, and though he doesn’t understand everything in it, he enjoys the pictures of it I make for him. He has a drawing of Aslan pinned on the wall in his room. He tells me lions are his favorite animal. I tell him his grandfather thought so, too.  
He likes to draw, too. Sometimes I make up outlines for him to color in. We bought him a picture book, but he likes coloring my drawings better—he likes to watch me make them. Sometimes he just scribbles. Ellen’s girlfriend got him a finger painting kit a few weeks ago, which may have been a mistake. I left him alone for a few minutes yesterday to fix him his snack and I found him in Gab’s and my bedroom, sitting on the floor in front of Gab’s full-length mirror, streaking it with purple handprints.  
“Henri, what are you doing?”  
“I didn’t do it!” he said, one hand still on the mirror.  
“Then who did?”  
“Berry.”  
“Blackberry did it? Ellen’s dog?”  
“Yeah, Blackberry.”  
“Those are strange prints for a dog to make.”  
“Yeah!” he yelled through a giggle.  
I sighed. “Alright. But don’t do this in front of Papa, okay? Let’s get you and the mirror cleaned up before you eat your snack.”  
“I didn’t do it.”  
“Mm-hmm. Come on.” I hoisted him up and swung him on my hip. He left little purple handprints on my arms. “We’ll make it a game of who can clean the fastest. Papa will be home soon, and he likes that mirror.”


End file.
